


call me poison ivy; coz im far from good

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cigarettes, F/F, Gen, tw: smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 22:33:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the stark sisters were close, but now they're in the same city and they may as well be a continent apart</p>
            </blockquote>





	call me poison ivy; coz im far from good

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [tonight the shadows had their say](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/25817) by penny_lane_42. 



> see notes at the end of the chapter for triggers

They take the city. 

Oh it's not some sort of Kardashian show, filled with gossips and cameras (although they've been offered TV shows, most certainly). It's not Friends, or Gossip Girl, with a group of close knit friends who all date one another and spend their time drinking and partying. 

Of course the pair do party and drink. But the partying and drinking is never for fun, never. 

_

Arya Stark is no longer known as Arya Stark.

She is not the girl who once took upon the Stark name, no longer the girl who was taught how to shoot by her brother, nor the girl who wept for her father. She is Arry, thought to be Arette by the magazines, the magazines that constantly document her and her acts and her actions and what she does. 

She is thought to be the most beautiful, the most enchanting - no. The most powerful perhaps, the most intimidating woman in all of lower New York.

She is an animal of the night, a creature (and some whisper a demon), cloaked in black and white and greys. 

She wears a practical heel. Oh you didn't know of such a thing? Her heel is a wedge really, so it does not catch in cracks of the street, and is black, as black as night, as black as the blood that has dried and dropped onto the fabric, as black as the burnt cigarette ashes, as black as the rum that is dried underneath her toe. 

She is elevated above the rest, with a gun at her hip, that none miss for she is Arry and they all glance at her as if she is more than the average woman, she is an Amazon of sorts, a woman warrior who kills each who stand in her way without the mercy that another would ask, for she is as she is and she carries the words of a spirit that is out of peoples reach, and carries the words out like they are a sentence (they are, they are, they are. They are a sentence which demands and a sentence she carries out and she is the one and the God and the being. For she is and they all fear her and her pixie cut she wears better than another). 

And she waits and she watches and listens. 

_

Sansa Stark is known as Sansa Stark.

She is not the girl who took the Stark name as a child though. For she is no longer so naive and unbroken and wholesome. She is no longer the girl who played with her brothers and sister, her sweet summer siblings. But she is Sansa still who the magazines talk of and they gossip of her person, of her being, of her dress. 

She is thought to be the most charming of all women in New York, and never once considered as the most powerful, although that is an unwise decision their behalf. 

She is an animal of the night, a creature (and some whisper an angel), cloaked in the brightest colours and glimmers and jewels one should not dream of. 

Her heel is practical in its impracticality. For it is high and towering and if she steps into the wrong place on the floor of the streets the men around her will catch her as she falls and as her brightness twirls around on the ballroom floors of the Upper East and West Sides, as she dances home to the Park Avenue mansions she takes up residence in with her friends. 

She is elevated above the rest, with a man at her hip, or a friend with pretty lashes, that none miss, for she is Sansa and they all glance at her as if she is just an average woman, just another girl who carries the burden of being a woman, being that shamed for her fathers burdens of the world. They whisper of her clothing and how she carries herself, for she carries herself with the shame of the thousands instead if a lone child woman. She carries out the sentence that has been handed to her (and in the sentence she hides her plans, and her cunning, and her wit, and she carries out her sentence). For they do not fear her they shall exclaim (but they do, they do, they do. They fear the smile she gives, a smile which is not a smile of joy but of warning and the punishment to come.)

And she waits and she watches and she listens. 

_

Arya - Arry - walks with the men of the city of New York. She walks with the men of Brooklyn and Queens. 

She finds their company reassuring, as her fingers curl around the cigarette she picked up from one of the boys pockets, her fingers curl around it and she spins Gendry's lighter around, letting it play across her knuckles, letting it dance and then flicks it on slightly and drops the cigarette from her mouth, lighting it, catches it with her hand and then places it between her lips. 

She impresses them easily, easier than any of them might expect.

All she has to do is take out a shot glass, and she can drink them under the table in what feels like mere secounds. 

She's just a human, just a woman and yet they all look at her like she's a goddess.

_

Sansa walks with the women of New York. The Upper Sided women and their brothers, their boyfriends. 

Sansa lights Margaery's cigarette with a smile, rolling the cigarette lighter in her fingers and flicks it the way that Robb taught her one afternoon, rolling her fingers along the silver of it, along the etching of the wolves paw prints. 

She impresses them easy, easier than any of them might expect.

All she has to do it twirl in her pretty new dress and she can make their eyes sparkle in mere moments. 

She's just a human, just a woman and yet they all look at her like she's a goddess. 

_

Some days they wake up with each others names on their lips and they ache and burn and yearn for each other, for each others hair and scent and hands, one rough and one soft, wrapped around legs and arms and waists and each other.

**Author's Note:**

> tw/ cw for some smoking, tw: incest
> 
> arya and sansa are a recurring theme and honestly i'd like the books to be their song


End file.
